Coming Home
by dinosonzii
Summary: 2 years had passed since that terrible day when a brilliant man named Sherlock jumped. Today, on the anniversary of his death, Dr. John Watson built up the courage to go and visit the old apartment, where the two friends had lived together. It is time for John, who is drowning in memories, to wipe away his tears and finally accept that his dear friend is gone. (NOT A REUNION FIC)


_**Summary:**_

_2 __years had passed since that terrible day when a brilliant man na__med__ Sherlock Holmes jumped. Today, on the anniversary of his death, Dr. John Watson bui__lt__ up the courage to go and visit the old apartment__, where the two friends had lived together. __It is time for John, who is drowning in memories, to wipe away his tears and finally accept that his dear friend is gone._

* * *

The sky was a gloomy grey, heavy rain pouring down on the empty streets. There was not a soul in sight, everyone sheltered in their homes, safe and warm, save for a short little man standing, with a walking stick, on Baker Street, in front of a door that said 221B in large gold letters. This man, wearing tan trousers and a grey colored jumper was none other than John Watson, ex-army doctor and close friend of none other than the infamous consulting detective, who died two years ago, to this day.

John stood outside 221B and sighed. He lifted his hand to ring the bell for the fifth time before letting it fall back to his side again. He wasn't able to do it. He wasn't ready to face the pain again. But he couldn't bring himself to leave either. So there he stood for the next half hour, drowning in his grief and indecision. Suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Hudson's familiar face appeared in the doorway. "John!" she exclaimed, "Why are you standing out here in the rain?". She quickly ushered him inside and shut the door.

"Mrs. Hudson." John said with a slight smile. It had been so long since he had last seen the old lady, but she was exactly how he remembered her. She was wearing a pink dress, he had seen countless times before, with a purple jumper on top. Her wrinkled face broke into a large smile as she turned to face him.  
"John!" she exclaimed again as she pulled him into a warm hug, "It's been so long. It's gotten quite lonely around here without the two of you making that awful racket upstairs. So much has happened since you've moved out, you know Mrs. Harris, down the street, had a baby…".

Mrs. Hudson rattled on for a few minutes and John stood quietly happy to see his old friend, but sad as well, remembering all the memories of 221B.  
John quickly shook himself out of his grief which was threatening to overwhelm him to hear Mrs. Hudson say "-but enough about me now. Tell me dear," she cupped his face with her hand, "how are you now?"

John opened his mouth to answer before closing it once again. He was fine… wasn't he? He was getting married, to a beautiful woman, in less than a month. He was happy, content, right? Then why did it hurt so much to stand here, only a flight of stairs away from his old flat. Why did he feel so empty?  
John's hesitation was enough for Mrs. Hudson.  
"Oh, dear… ".

"It's been two years." John said in a dry, hollow voice.

"I know, I know." She patted his cheek softly. "And I also know why you're here. Go on up dear. I'll make us a cuppa and bring it around".

Mrs. Hudson gave him a small smile,before turning and walking into her apartment.

John watched Mrs. Hudson go and kept staring at the empty doorway long after she had disappeared through it. He turned towards the stairs leading to his old flat. It felt as though the walls would crumble down upon him if he began to make his way up. And he was afraid. So afraid that what he would see up there would tell him,would force him to believe, that his friend, his best friend, was gone, truly and forever. He was a soldier. He had fought wars. He had almost died. Yet this was the most terrified he had felt in his entire life.  
John pushed his fear down and took a deep breath, and another, and then was a full five minutes before he was able to gather enough nerve to climb up those stairs. He clambered up each step slowly, limping slightly with cane in hand, feeling an impending sense of doom, growing with each step. He focused on feet, not thinking of anything else except putting one foot in front of the other.

And then, miraculously, he was there. He was stood on the landing just outside the black door leading into his old flat. The door was already opened a crack, like someone was expecting him to be there, and had left the door open for him, Quickly, before he lost the nerve, John stretched out his hand and gave the door a push. It swung open with ease to reveal the room in which he had lived so many moments with his dear friend. John let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and mechanically, almost involuntarily he walked forward into the living room.

The living room was exactly how it was when he had left. There was not a single thing out of place, not a single thing out of order in the messy room. It had taken him so long to understand that his friend's mess was not random but efficient and planned.

"_This room is not messy," his friend once said to him in an irritated rush after John had asked him to clean up a little for about the thousandth time, "It is simply an accurate representation of reality. Order in the chaos. Is that not the life of the bumbling idiots residing upon this earth?"_.

That had been the last time John had asked that question. He smiled remembering the snark of his brilliant friend.

John made his way to the desk where he had blogged about his friend and their adventures regularly. There were papers all over the desk, littered over stacks of dusty books and a very old-fashioned radio, which could barely be seen behind the mess. John pushed aside a few of the papers to reveal his old blogging laptop. He had bought a new one later, but left this one here after...it happened. It had been gathering dust for 2 years. He ran his finger through the thick layer of dust as another unbidden memory came to him, one which he had tried to forget countless times, but one which kept coming back.

_"Look, my blog has gotten over 10,000 hits!" John had exclaimed happily, staring at the counter on his laptop screen.  
"What do you even blog about?" his friend replied sarcastically._

_As if he hadn't known. Still, John had gone along with it.  
"About the cases. People enjoy reading about the crimes we solve."  
"So basically about me."  
That had struck a nerve with John. _

"_No, its…" John started to argue, turning his head only to find himself face to face with the brilliant consulting detective who was leaning over him, so close that their noses were almost touching. He stared into the startling grey eyes of his best friend- __**friend**__, John reminded himself, but he was unable to tear his gaze away.  
"True?" the tall man whispered in his deep baritone voice, his breath washing over John's face. He arched one eyebrow in a mockingly questioning manner._

_John was frozen in place, desperately trying to inch closer, trying to close the small space in between them, before the phone rang and both men jerked back, the moment broken. The detective answered the call and after a quick conversation was out the door yet again, his dark curls bouncing as he flew down the stairs. John had taken a few moments to recompose himself, before bolting out the door after him. _

The moment was never spoken of again. John wondered yet again, that if he had had a little more guts that day, would the fall have happened? Would his best friend still be alive?

He quickly pushed those thoughts away, before turning and making his way over to the fireplace,to distract himself from these horrid memories, threatening to take over him. He noticed the skull, his roommate's old 'friend' was still atop the mantle, along with a black phone and a few more books,old and worn. John chuckled slightly as he remembered when he had first come into the apartment and seen the skull placed neatly on the edge of the mantle.

"_That's a skull." John had stated obviously.  
_"_Friend of mine." his very new acquaintance had replied absentmindedly. "...when I say friend-"._

The detective had tried so hard to appear 'normal' to John, doing things the way the 'average lot' would in an attempt to be accepted as something other than a freak. It was a pity that it had taken his friend so long to realize that John accepted the brilliant detective, just the way he was, from the moment that they had met. John picked up the skull to find that,oddly enough, it didn't have a thick layer of dust upon it.

Curiously, John spun around to call to Mrs. Hudson, only to find her walking through the door with her tray of tea and biscuits for the two for them balanced precariously in her pale, wrinkled hands.

Before John could even open his mouth, Mrs. Hudson began rattling off as she headed towards the kitchen to set the tray down.

"John, be a dear and turn on radio for me, please. I hope you don't mind, it's just the music helps calm me."

John smiled at her familiar antics, skull forgotten. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her after he had left. "Of course.", he called back to Mrs. Hudson. He set the skull down gently, and walked purposefully back to the cluttered table.

John moved through the dusty desk, shoving the loose papers in the desk drawer, before he finally spied the radio, buried underneath a stack of books. He ran his hand over the deep maroon knob, turning it on with a screeching static noise, drawing out a surprised yelp from Mrs. Hudson. He muttered out a quick apology, tuning the antique radio mechanically, as he fell back into another memory.

"_When, exactly, did we get a radio?" John accidentally wondered aloud, prompting a response from the tall gentleman, currently lying on the couch behind him, hands clasped under his chin, in his 'thinking position'. _

"_Its been there since the day you moved in, John."_

"_Hmm, I wonder why I didn't notice it sooner." John said as he wandered over to the window next to the couch, staring out into the daylight. _

"_Because, as always you see but you don't observe." _

_His roommate sighed, and jumped up from the sofa, his robe flying, as he began to pace around the room. _

_John, feeling cheeky, glanced towards the egoistic detective and asked, without turning his head, "Really. If that's so, then go ahead, tell me. What is that 'superior' mind of yours observing now? What do you know?"_

_John saw his friend freeze out of the corner of his eyes, fighting back a smile as he saw the other man's eyes flash in annoyance. He was glad to know the sarcasm was not lost as it so often was when used upon the detective._

_John started to move across the room, heading to his bedroom, silently reveling in his short victory, which had according to him, rendered his loud-mouthed friend speechless, if only for a few moments._

"_Everything." His roommate muttered. _

_John clenched his jaw. He should have known it was hollow victory. The stubborn detective always had to get the last word. _

"_Sorry?" _

"_I observe everything." He turned and strode quickly to the window. "See that woman down there. The one with the black umbrella, to shield her from the sun. I know that she's on her way to see the man she's having an affair with. I know this because I observe. Those black heels aren't made for walking such a distance, which she obviously did, considering the way she's wobbling. She wouldn't have worn those unless she wanted to impress. Not a business meeting- the skirt is much too short for that, I can't even see it. So, a lover. But she wouldn't be hiding under that umbrella for an ordinary lover. I observed her mannerisms, the way she keeps looking over her shoulder, her quick deliberate movements. Like she has something to hide. Clearly an affair. And I know all this, even though she's already out of sight." _

_The detective spun on his heel, and stared directly into John's eyes. "I observe everything and everyone. Even you."_

"_You deduced me the first time we met. I already know tha-"_

"_I observe you all the time. I know everything you do, I can predict __your every MOVE!" he yelled._

_Suddenly, there was no distance between them. The detective grabbed John's arm. His startled blue eyes met the fiery grey ones in front of him._

" _I know everything about you." the detective said softly. "From how you're feeling to the way you like your tea. I can tell exactly where you've been from just a look at your clothes and how you are feeling from just a glance at your face. Your expressions change, ever so slightly, just enough for me to know. I know how you feel around Lestrade, Molly, even that idiot Anderson." His voice dropped an octave. "And I know how you feel around me."_

_John froze in place. His roommate turned John's hand in his palm._

"_Whenever you're near me", he whispered into John's ear, "Your pupils dilate. Your pulse elevates. Your breathing becomes shallower by the minute. You begin to stop thinking rationally, focusing all your energy in hiding your obvious reaction to me. Your obvious arousal."_

_The detective paused in his deduction and John held his breath._

"_It's a shame you don't observe as much as me."_

_And then his full lips descended upon John's._

"John? …John?"Mrs. Hudson startled John out of his thoughts. "Dear, the tea is getting cold."

"Wha- um. Right." John smiled at her, trying to hide the blush creeping up his face. It was fading either way, as John remembered how that incident had happened only days before 'the fall'.

John walked to the small circular table to pick up his tea before settling down in the familiar comfy armchair next to it. The one he had grown oddly attached to, from the moment he first saw it. He distantly registered the radio jockey announce the song "Coming Home" to be playing next.

He was too caught up in staring at the painfully empty chair in front of him, where his best mate used to sit. The chair was grey like his eyes and matched his personality perfectly. The sharp corners like his sharp wit and the hard back, so cold and imposing, but comfortable and warm once you get used to it, just like him. He remembered the video, Lestrade had brought him a few weeks ago, in which his flat mate sits in the same exact chair. It feels like another lifetime ago.

"_Hello John. I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, I'm very busy. However, many happy returns. Oh, and don't worry. I am going to be with you again very soon."_

John shook his couldn't hold it back anymore. The flood gates broke open and the memories, he tried to suppress for two whole years, rushed to the forefront of his mind. He closed his eyes and fell into a daze, sitting there in his chair, reliving each of those cherished memories with his friend inside his mind. His smile, his genuine smile, flashed in front of his eyes. It was quickly replaced by his face when he found out Harry was a girl. John could feel wave after wave of his friend's smallest emotions washing over him. His bossiness. His superiority. His ego. His small acts of kindness and compassion. His stormy grey eyes. His lips which almost never stopped moving. His voice, forming string after string of words, in that deep baritone voice. The words swirled around him, suffocating him. The first words he had ever hear his friend say. _Afghanistan or Iraq? _His rants and deductions. His wisdom. His belief._ When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ His excitement while solving cases. _"The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on." _His suits, his scarves, his loyalty, his friendship. That wink. His bouncing black curls. The feel of his lips. The goodness inside him. And his capacity to love.

Each and every memory, no matter how small, wormed its way out of John's mind after being suppressed so long, plunging into his heart repeatedly like daggers made of ice.

John couldn't breathe. Spots were dancing before his eyes.  
_He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't take it anymore.  
_He could almost feel the detective's presence. beside him.  
_He needed to get out. Needed to leave.  
_He could almost hear the last words again.  
"_Goodbye, John."  
_One more miracle. Don't be dead.  
_He needed him to be alive.  
_And he could hear the violin.

His eyes shot open.

He could hear the violin.

_**But he wasn't there.**_

A primitive desperate cry tore itself out of John's mouth. He was going mad. He sprung up from his seat, his unfinished cup of tea falling to the ground with a clatter, and ran. He flew down the steps and ran straight out into the pouring rain, leaving the front door wide open in his wake. By the time Mrs. Hudson recovered from the shocking scream, John was long gone.

John ran and ran with no destination in mind, and kept running, taking random lefts and rights, until his sweat mingled with the rain which soaked him and his every breath became so labored that it physically hurt him to breathe. Taking one last turn, he fell down to his knees. He took a single, shaky breath before letting out all his anger and frustration, all his grief and humiliation with a single shout. "SHERLOCK!"

Entirely spent, both physically and emotionally, John fell forward and crawled his way to the nearest wall. Resting his back against the cold stone building, he pulled his knees to his chest, shivering slightly from the rain, still pouring down on him incessantly, flattening his silver hair to his forehead, similar to the grief weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Burying his head in his hands, John began to silently weep. He wept for the loss of a life. For the loss of a brilliant man. He wept for the loss of a flat mate, a detective, a partner, a lover. But most of all he wept for his loss, the loss of his very best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson went down to shut the door and on her way back up, she heard the violin song slowly come to an end on the radio. As she walked back into the flat, she heard the radio jockey announce "- And that was a beautiful piece composed by one of our listeners, dedicated to a person with the initials JW by SH."

She shut off the radio with a quick and deliberate click and slowly made her way to the window. She peered out into the cold and still street, washed with the dull grey color of the clouds from which the rain was pouring steadily. As her eyes scanned the scene, searching for the familiar pale face with the pronounced cheekbones and full lips, she couldn't help but mutter to herself, slightly exasperated; "Oh, Sherlock… Now, look what you've done…"

* * *

**A/N: Hey guys. I hope you liked the story. If you did (or if you didn't or even if you're indifferent) please review, cuz it'll make me happy! :)  
This is my Christmas (or whatever holiday you celebrate) gift, to my lovely readers. Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed. **

**Happy New Year! **


End file.
